The Eccentricities of New England

The name, for the record, is the Big 20 Bowling Center,
not the Big Bowling Center. That'd be dumb.

One thing I am not is charitable. It isn't often that I take part in charitable events, anyway. I don't like crowds and pomp doesn't work for me.

Candlepin bowling, however, I cannot resist. So, when Hal, a friend and co-worker (I accidentally typed cow-worker first. That would have been embarrassing) invited me to bowl with the Sea Dogs, I accepted.

The Sea Dogs are our local Double-A baseball team. They are a Red Sox affiliate and play in a fun litltle ballpark, complete with a replica of Fenway's Green Monster in left field. They were doing an hour-and-a-half charity fundraiser at the local bowling alley today. Hal asked me if I wanted to join him. Who am I to resist the siren call of candlepin bowling?

First, a primer on candlepin bowling, for you non-Yankees. The lanes are about the same length, width and wood composition as in a regular bowling alley. Key differences include:
1. The ball. It's almost the exact same size and weight as a skee ball, except it's shiny and hard like a bowling ball. And you apparently get four of them at a time when you buy them.
2. The pins. They are thin and vaguely resemble candles. They also don't generally flop around very much, because the ball is small. Sex joke here.
3. The throws. You get three tosses per frame and you have to hit the reset button when you're done with your tosses.
4. The scoring. Actually, it's the same as regular bowling, except it's impossible to get a strike. I think one person in our group had one strike. I'm a decent "regular" bowler (usually rolling around 140) but 77 was my best Wednesday.

Our group – Hal and I just showed up, taking whatever spots were available – was not young. Hal, a young 50-something, was the second-youngest member of our five-person group. A woman named Sheila, born and raised in Maine, beat everybody twice with her 5 mph rolls. She wouldn't run up to the starting line and toss the ball, as the Sea Dogs were doing in the lane next to us. Sheila just stood there, chucked the ball, watched it for a second, and went over to the rack for another ball while her shot toddled down the lane. She would have the next ball in hand and be waiting to throw before her shot struck a pin. Once, she hit the "reset" button while the pins were still rattling around from her shot.

Sheila liked to gab, so we talked about jobs, the economy, and whatever else came to mind.

"Hey, Sheila, what's this a fundraiser for?" I asked.
"Kids with cancer something," she said.

I can get behind that. Of course, the real stars were the guys next to us. Chris Balcolm-Miller was there. The stars don't shine much brighter here in Portland.

As soon as time ran out on the fundraiser – as in, seconds before everybody's lane shut off after an hour and a half of good times – the Sea Dogs were out the door. You have to, to avoid a Beatles-like crush of fans as you try to leave.

Sheila and I were talking just before time ran out.
"Have you bowled much?" she asked.
"Used to roll four or five games a week in Wisconsin," I replied.
"Oh. Candlepin or the other kind?"

Uh, the other kind. It doesn't get much more New England than that. She's been here all her life. The old gal probably needs a passport to enter New Hampshire. She thinks there might be candlepin bowling in Wisconsin. And I might have laughed at her if she hadn't just schooled my ass at candlepin bowling. You've won this round, New England.